


A Step Too Far

by Anonymous



Category: Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 17:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: An unexpected moment during a case allows Poirot to learn something new about Hastings and his friend's war service.





	A Step Too Far

They were walking across the sprawling grounds that belonged to the Lord who had requested Poirot’s services just in time to be murdered, most likely by one his numerous relatives hungry for his money. 

The walls seemed to have ears and as such Poirot had accepted Hastings’ suggestions of a walk as they discussed their progress. Hastings was in the middle of describing his interview with one of the chauffeurs who had been so cagey that he felt sure the man was hiding something, “I understand loyalty to the family but my god Poirot a man’s been murdered!”

Poirot shook his head fondly, a smile playing at his lips, “Ah mon ami, always the indignation when people lie yes?”

Hastings flushed a little, “Well…yes” but before he could continue a shot rang out and he responded on instinct, tackling Poirot to the ground and throwing himself on top of him. 

Poirot struggled against his sudden weight but Hastings was a larger man but even if he hadn’t been he would not have let anything move him in that moment, he could not leave Poirot exposed – what the Germans would do if they found a Belgian in their trench…

He shuddered at the thought, pain shooting up his leg and he swore under his breath. Poirot again tried to extract himself but Hastings steadied himself saying harshly, “No, stay still! Good god man, have you no sense!”

A deafening silence followed and for several minutes there was not sound except their laboured breathing. “Mon ami?” Poirot’s voice was hesitant and more than a little breathless and Hastings carefully levered himself up, holding a sort of plank position above his friend even as his leg screamed in protest; sometimes snipers waited to see if they’d been successful and would fire again at the first sign of movement. 

There was no shot, no sound but harsh breathing and the blood rushing in his ears and Hastings got clumsily to his feet, his leg nearly buckling beneath him and cutting off Poirot’s mutterings in French as he instead clambered to his feet looking worried, “Hastings! You are injured?”

Hastings clutched his leg, digging his fingers into the scar tissue, he was feeling light headed and he could not afford to pass out, he needed to get Poirot to safety. “We need to take cover” he said instead of answering Poirot’s question, gripping his friend’s elbow and nodding towards the copse of trees that would provide sufficient cover if they lay down. 

“But mon ami…” 

But Hastings was in no mood for discussion, they didn’t have time. He was limping dreadfully but didn’t slacken his pace or release his grip on Poirot’s arm, “Come on, hurry!” He fairly dragged his friend along panting with the effort, pain and fear making his stomach clench uncomfortably. It wouldn’t take them long to reload, it never did…

Finally they reached the trees and Hastings unceremoniously threw Poirot to the ground, collapsing beside him with a groan that was a mixture of relief and pain. His eyes slipped closed and he again dug his fingers into his leg, gasping as the pain shot up his leg, like fire setting every nerve alight as his leg cramped and seized. 

“Mon ami you are hurt, you must let Poirot see! S’il vous plait Hastings!”

Hastings blinked and found Poirot hovering over him, eyes dark with worry, “Its alright old thing” He panted, “Just my leg, bloody Krauts” 

He tried to smile but suspected it looked more like a grimace when Poirot only looked more concerned, “We are not in France mon ami” 

Poirot spoke gently, as if to a child, and Hastings blinked uncomprehendingly at him, “The shot!” He protested, “My leg!” 

He broke off with a gasp as the pain shot up his leg again, stars swimming before his eyes the blessed darkness of unconsciousness was beckoning to him, and he stabbed at his wound again, crying out and turning his head to be sick as quietly as he could as he finally lost his battle with his stomach. 

When the retching finally ended, leaving him panting and shivering as the sweat cooled on the back of his neck, Poirot was kneeling beside him, one hand on his back, murmuring soothingly in French, looking more worried than Hastings could remember seeing him.

“Chut mon ami tu es en securite, je te promets quil n’y a rien a craindre. Vous devez laisser Poirot s’occuper de tes blessures.” 

Hastings blinked; it was far too much French for him to understand, even on a good day, which this decidedly was not. Thankfully Poirot immediately noticed that he was looking at him, and laid a gentle hand on his cheek saying soothingly, “Be still mon brave capitaine. Your leg it pains you greatly with the cramp, let Poirot ease it oui?”

“But the sniper…” Hastings protested his leg was throbbing with such intensity that he was sure he had been shot again.

“No mon ami, there is no sniper, we are not in France. There was a shot yes, the young lord I think is hunting, but we are not in danger. I give you Poirot’s word on this and you know Poirot does not lie.” 

He spoke quietly but firmly and Hastings ran a hand over his face, sinking onto his back and trying to wrap his head around this. But before he could even begin the cramps seized his leg again, he groaned loudly, clutching Poirot’s arm as he writhed. 

“Chut, chut mon ami, help it comes” Poirot’s face swam above him and fearing yet again that he would pass out, Hastings moved to stab the scar tissue as he had done previously but Poirot read his intention and caught his wrist, “No mon cher, that will not help”

“Stay awake…god Poirot have too…”

“Oui but not by giving yourself the great pain, no mon brave that I will not allow.”

Before Hastings could try and formulate a response to that they were joined by the Earl’s second son and their current prime suspect, “Good God what’s happened?”

Hastings felt a blush creeping up his neck but Poirot simply said, “Captain Hastings has had an aggravation of his injury of the war. If you would be so kind as to fetch him some water?’

“Water?” The man asked incredulously, “Surely he needs a doctor?”

Poirot looked at Hastings, who tried to silently communicate that he did not want a doctor, “Peut-etre, possibly but for now, just the water I think.” 

He nodded in clear dismissal and the man hurried off to do as he asked and Hastings breathed a sigh of relief, “Thanks old thing”

Poirot smiled weakly, “I did not say I would not call a doctor mon ami but for now I think you would prefer Poirot to ease the cramp?”

Hastings nodded, “Could you pass me my handkerchief?”

Poirot frowned, “This is hardly the time to worry about the appearance Hastings” He did as Hastings asked however and his expression saddened as he watched Hastings twist the handkerchief and slip it into his mouth, “Oh mon brave…”

Hastings made a ‘get on with it’ motion and to his relief Poirot obeyed without further comment. As careful as he knew Poirot was being Hastings was still glad of the handkerchief to muffle his cries pain - as much for his friend’s sake as his fear of alarming the household. 

By the time Lord Beaumont returned with a glass of water and two servants, Poirot had been successful in easing the painfully tight muscles, and Hastings was now slumped exhausted on the grass, trying desperately to fight his memories back into the past.

“Mon ami” Poirot said softly, “The others, they approach”

Hastings opened his eyes and forced a weak smile, “Thanks Poirot, sorry to be such a bother.”

Poirot shook his head, squeezing his hand firmly as he did so, “Never mon ami” 

It wasn’t until he was sitting on the bed in the room he had been assigned for the duration of their stay, watching Poirot discuss something quietly with one of the servants, that Hastings realized how disheveled his usually impeccably dressed friend looked.

He looked down at his own suit and saw that it was streaked with grass-stains and dirt and felt shame building in his gut. Not for himself, for it was hardly the first time he had suffered such an incident at an inopportune time, but for Poirot. He had embarrassed his friend in front of his client yet again and Hasting suddenly wished the four-poster bed would swallow him whole.

“Mon ami?” Hastings was shaken from his thoughts by Poriot’s voice and he looked up to find his friend standing directly in front of him, brow creased with concern, “You are most pale mon ami, perhaps Monsieur Beaumont is correct?”

Hastings frowned, “Correct about what?” 

Poirot’s shoulders tensed, “You needing le docteur Hastings. I shall go now and have one called immediatement”

He turned but Hastings caught his arm saying rather desperately, “No don’t, there’s no need, it was just a cramp”

Poirot looked unimpressed, “Just a cramp? No I think not mon ami, I have seen you with the cramp before, this it was much worse.”

He moved towards the door again and Hastings tightened his grip, “Please don’t Poirot” His voice was high and pleading, and to his horror he felt tears prick his eyes and he quickly cleared his throat, hoping Poirot would not notice. 

It was a foolish hope for his friend immediately turned back to face him, cupping his cheek gently, his face and voice soft with compassion. “Ah mon cher you think it shameful oui to have a doctor come for such a thing? No, no mon brave, there is no shame I assure you of this.”

Hastings swallowed hard, “No it’s not…I’m so sorry Poirot, I’ve gone and made a fool of you in front of Beaumont all because of one silly rifle shot, I don’t know how you put up with me…”

Poirot’s expression darkened and he took Hastings’ free hand, squeezing it firmly enough that Hastings stopped speaking and looked at him questioningly. “No mon ami, this is not so. You act with the instinct of a solider most brave to save Poirot and you pay for your courage with much pain. If there is shame it is for Poirot, I heard Lord Beaumont say that this morning he would go sacking the birds”

“Bagging.” Hastings corrected automatically

“Oui, bagging the birds and I say nothing of this to you mon ami and for this I am most sorry.”

Hastings shook his head immediately; “I wouldn’t have thought to mention it to you either Poirot”

“Nevertheless, le docteur I think he should be called, yes?”

“I would really rather not, could we maybe…?” He trailed off flushing as he realized what he had been about to suggest.

“Maybe what mon ami?”

The blush deepened but Hastings knew Poirot was serious about calling the doctor, “Well it’s just if it’s just a cramp there’s really nothing for the doctor to do unless…” he took a deep breath, “Unless I’ve aggravated the scar tissue but I’ll be able to tell if I have, so shouldn’t I at least check?”

There was a knock on the door before Poirot could reply and he moved to answer it, accepting a tray and speaking quietly to the servant for a moment before turning back to the bed, “The tonic water, you say before it is good for the cramps oui?”

Hastings smiled involuntarily he had mentioned that, once, a year ago. It was so like Poirot to remember such a thing. “Quite right, thanks awfully old thing”

Poirot preened a little at the praise and Hastings breathed a sigh of relief, Poirot had an ego it was true but he did not indulge it when he was at his most concerned, maybe he would be able to avoid the doctor after all.

“Bon” Poirot said as he set the tray down and poured a glass of tonic water before crossing to hand it to him, “You will drink then we will check if you have the aggravated the tissue de scar oui?”

Hastings flushed again, “Oh I can manage Poirot. I mean surely you want to…” He waved a hand at his friend’s dirty and grass-stained suit; normally Poirot would insist on changing immediately but today Poirot shook his head, “The suit it needs the cleaners fifteen minutes makes no difference to Poirot. Drink mon ami then we see what damage your heroics have done.”

He spoke firmly and gestured to the glass in Hastings hand and he obediently took a sip, knowing there was no point arguing with Poirot when he had made up his mind. Which was why ten minutes later he was blushing deeply while Poirot helped him rise so he could drop his trousers without having to put too much weight on his bad leg.

“Really Poirot there’s no need…” Hastings protested, as Poirot helped him settle back on the bed and then stooped to undo his shoes and ease his trousers off.

“You English and your prudish ways” Poirot huffed as he put the trousers over the back of a chair, “You think Poirot has not been to the seaside you love so much before Hastings? You think all Englishmen swim in the trousers?” 

“Well no, of course not” 

“The shorts of swimming are much the same mon ami. Your leg now” Hastings sighed but obediently looked down at the knot of scar tissue. It was red and he drew a sharp breath as he ran a gentle finger over it but it felt as sound as ever.

He glanced up, surprised to find Poirot’s face lined with worry, “It’s alright, I suspect I’ll have a fairly good bruise by this evening but the scar tissue is sound, nothing to worry about.”

Poirot did not appear to hear him, his eyes fixed on mess of white lines, already starting to darken with bruising; “Une balle a causé une telle blessure?” Hastings looked at him inquiringly and Poirot waved a hand, clearly agitated, “I have seen bullet wounds before mon ami but this…”

Hastings winced “It’s pretty wretched to look at I know, I’m lucky though most chaps can’t hide theirs so easily”

Poirot shook his head, “No this is not what Poirot means, it is…” he gave an exasperated sigh, the one he used whenever he found the English language particularly frustrating, “Large for only one bullet, no?”

Hastings looked down; with the exception of the doctors and nurses who had treated him he had not shared the details of his wound with anyone. He glanced up and found Poirot studying him with quiet concern. 

If he couldn’t tell Poirot then who could he tell? He took a deep breath, “It…I mean I needed too…” He swallowed hard, as the sights and sounds of that day flooded back once again. “I was shot but there were other men…men under my command who were hurt worse…”

Poirot nodded but stayed quiet, as ever knowing when not to interrupt. “It was bleeding rather badly and I needed to stay awake, so I could try and get them to safety you see, so I did the only thing I could…”

“Mon Dieu” Poirot murmured under his breath looking aghast, “You put your fingers in the wound, as you did today, did you not?”

“It was the only thing I could do Poirot!” He knew his voice was pleading but he needed Poirot to understand, “They were my men, there on my orders I had to try…”

Tears were stinging his eyes again and he looked down blinking hard. A moment later his head was resting against Poirot’s chest, his friend’s arms warm around his shoulders, “Mon brave capitaine, it is as I have always said, your heart mon cher is without equal. Oh mon tres courageux Arthur”

It was too much, the understanding and respect in Poirot’s voice and suddenly Hastings was crying, sobbing in fact on Poirot’s waistcoat overcome by the memories of the event that had led to his injury. Poirot held fast, running a hand through his hair and murmuring soothingly in French until Hastings finally managed to compose himself once more.

He pulled back, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve, “Sorry Poirot I’m not sure what came over me”

Poirot shook his head, “The afternoon it has been a hard one mon ami. Your leg it pains you still, you must rest now.” And that was how Hastings found himself, dosed with aspirin, chivvied into his pajamas and tucked into bed before he really knew what was happening. 

Placing another full glass of tonic water on the bedside table Poirot smiled gently at him, “Rest mon ami and call for Poirot if you need anything oui?”

Hastings nodded, “I will” Poirot nodded in satisfaction and started to move away from the bed but Hastings reached out and caught his arm, “Thanks awfully old thing”

Poirot smiled and patted the hand that lay on his arm, “Not at all, there is nothing for you I will not do. I hope you know this mon ami. Rest now, I shall waken you for dinner.” And with that he quietly left the room, leaving Hastings to try and sleep off the worst of the pain-induced exhaustion.

The air was thick with smoke and the smell of gas that never seemed to leave, lurking there waiting to smother you at the first opportunity. He blinked hard trying to get his bearings, as if there was such a thing in no man’s land. “Captain Hastings?”

His head whipped around and he saw one of his men, god he was a boy not a man, reaching for him from the mud, his uniform jacket crimson with blood, “Captain Hastings!”

He lunged forward, his leg throbbing in protest, and stretched every sinew trying to reach him, pull him from the mud and back to safety. Suddenly he felt a hand grip his…

“Hastings! You are dreaming mon ami, you must waken.”

Hastings sat up with a gasp to find Poirot standing beside the bed, holding his hand gently, his face soft with understanding. He blinked, his heart pounding so hard he felt sure it would escape his chest, “P-poirot?”

“Oui mon ami, you are in England and we are safe” Hastings nodded and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breath in deeply through his nose and slowly out through his mouth. For several minutes the only sounds were his breathing and the ticking of the clock and then Poirot squeezed his hand lightly, “Mon ami, your leg?”

Hastings opened his eyes, and concentrated on his leg, it ached more than usual but less than before and he forced a smile, “It’s alright Poirot, suspect I just need to stretch it out a little”

Poirot did not look especially convinced but he nodded and released Hastings hand gently as he turned to study the clock, “The supper shall be in two hours”

Hastings nodded and then frowned, if supper weren’t for two hours, why had Poirot been in his room? He paled as an obvious solution presented itself, “Poirot, I wasn’t shouting loudly was I? I mean…”

“Not at all mon ami. Our room they are close oui? Poirot was thinking about the case, the clues I shall need to watch for at the supper.” He smiled and patted Hastings shoulder reassuringly, “Be not ashamed mon brave, no one else shall know, and the terrible dreams they come to us all oui?”

“I jolly well hope not!” 

Poirot smiled a little sadly, “Alas mon brave captaine you cannot bear all this burden. Do you wish to sleep more?”

Hastings shook his head, “No like I said I’d like to stretch my legs a bit before supper.” He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hesitated; he always hated this moment, having to test his leg after a particularly bad spell, the lingering fear that it would buckle under him always lurking in the back of his mind.

“Mon ami?” Poirot’s voice was gentle and Hastings was surprised to find that while he had been marshalling his emotions his friend had moved to stand on his bad side, clearly understanding his hesitation and ready to help however he could.

“Arthur?” The rare use of his given name coupled with a gentle touch on his shoulder drew Hastings from his thoughts once again and he found Poirot studying him with concern, “Your leg mon ami? It pains you oui?”

“Well a little but not really more than normal. It’s just…” He sighed, “Stupid really but after a, well a spell like that, it’s just a bit hard too…”

Poirot nodded, “I understand mon ami, how can Poirot help?”

Hastings forced a smile, “If you could just…stay?”

He winced at how childish his words sounded but before he could take them back, Poirot squeezed his shoulder and said simply, “But of course, I had hoped too that you might allow me to accompany you when you go to ‘stretch the legs’? I have thoughts about the case I wish to share with you.”

Hastings knew what Poirot really wanted was to make sure he didn’t have another episode or at least wasn’t on his own if he did and the knowledge brought a swell of warmth to his chest. “Of course old thing, I’d like that” 

Taking a deep breath, he set his feet squarely on the floor and stood up, Poirot reached out to steady him but to both of their relief it proved unnecessary. Before long they were once again walking the grounds discussing the case with nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary had occurred that day.

**Author's Note:**

> French translations come from Google translate, my apologies if they are less than accurate.
> 
> Chut mon ami tu es en securite, je te promets quil n’y a rien a craindre. Vous devez laisser Poirot s’occuper de tes blessures - Hush my friend you are safe, I promise you that there is nothing to fear. You have to let Poirot take care of your wounds
> 
> Une balle a causé une telle blessure? - One bullet caused such a wound?
> 
> It is very nearly 100 years since World War One ended. "The War to end all wars" it sadly was not and my hope every Remembrance Day is that the memory of past and current sacrifices reminds us of the importance of peace but also of our duty to stand up to injustice. Lest We Forget


End file.
